The Gardener and the Storm
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
The gardener does not curse the sky.
She kneels instead,
hands buried in trembling soil,
feeling the first cool warning of rain
as if it were a heartbeat she already knew.
She has planted things that will not last—
tender shoots that bend too easily,
flowers that open only once.
Still, she tends them
as though devotion alone could anchor their roots
against what’s coming.
The clouds gather like unspoken grief.
The wind rises,
a restless choir of everything she cannot hold.
Still, she whispers to each leaf,
each fragile green defiance:
Whatever comes, I will love you anyway.
The storm does not listen.
It tears and takes as storms do—
without malice,
without apology.
Branches break. Petals scatter.
The garden becomes a memory in motion.
When silence returns,
she gathers what remains—
a single stem, a loosened seed,
the scent of rain clinging to her wrists.
She does not weep.
She presses the seed into the dark
and begins again.
Because love is not the shelter.
It is the hands that rebuild
when the wind is done.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
